Nightfall jn-1

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I’ll take my car with me, shall I?’

  Deep frowns furrowed Tyler’s forehead. ‘What?’

  Nightingale gestured at the Bentley. ‘That’s my motor,’ he said.

  Tyler put a bear-like paw on his shoulder and squeezed, digging his thumb into the pressure point near the socket. ‘You’re starting to piss me off, private dickhead.’

  ‘I’m the sole beneficiary of Ainsley Gosling’s estate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve seen the will, Alfie, and there’s no mention of you or the Bentley. So, if I go along to the cops, the car will be back in my garage and you’ll be back behind bars. Prisons are a lot more crowded than they were when you were last there, and I’m told the food’s worse.’

  Tyler squinted at Nightingale. ‘How did you know I’d been in prison?’

  ‘I don’t care about your criminal record, I don’t care about whose legs you did or didn’t break, I just want to know about Ainsley Gosling.’

  ‘Mr Gosling said the car was mine after he’d gone.’

  ‘He came back from the grave to tell you that, did he?’ said Nightingale.

  Tyler frowned. ‘What?’ He released his grip on Nightingale’s shoulder.

  ‘When did he tell you the car was yours?’

  ‘All the time. He knew how much I liked it, and he said I could have it. After… you know.’

  ‘So he told you he was going to top himself, did he?’

  ‘What? No, he bloody well didn’t. What are you trying to do here? You trying to say I had something to do with him killing himself? That’s bollocks.’ He put his fists on his hips and glowered at Nightingale.

  Nightingale lit a cigarette. He saw Tyler’s nostrils flare and offered him the packet.

  ‘I’m trying to give up,’ said Tyler.

  ‘One won’t hurt,’ said Nightingale. Tyler shrugged and helped himself. Nightingale lit it for him. ‘Okay, here’s the thing, Alfie. I’m not going to have much use for a car over the next year or two, and, anyway, I’m a fan of convertibles. I like the feel of the wind in my hair.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What I’m saying is, I’m more than happy to let you keep the Bentley, free, gratis, whatever, but in return I want you to tell me what Gosling was up to in the weeks before his death.’

  Tyler’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch, Alfie. I’ll even sign a piece of paper here and now saying it’s yours.’

  Tyler’s brow furrowed again. ‘Give me another of them cards, yeah?’

  ‘Only if you promise not to throw it away,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You say “what” a lot – you know that?’ Nightingale gave him another business card.

  Tyler pursed his lips as he read the card. ‘Why did Mr Gosling make you his heir?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Give me the short version.’

  ‘I’m his son.’

  ‘Mr Gosling never told me he had a kid.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m the family secret,’ said Nightingale. ‘But Gosling Manor’s mine now. And so’s the Bentley. So, are you and I going to have a chat or what?’

  Tyler took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s going to take a while,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why don’t you ask me in and we can talk over a drink? Or two.’

  51

  Tyler sighted down his cue, smacked the white ball against the number five and grinned as it shot into a corner pocket. ‘That’s another tenner you owe me,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him a ten-pound note. ‘That’s the sign of a misspent youth,’ he said.

  Tyler had built a bar in his basement, complete with a full range of optics, draught-beer pumps, a pool table, a jukebox and half a dozen fruit machines. On one wall there were dozens of framed photographs of a younger Tyler with well-known villains, movie stars and even a few members of the Metropolitan Police. Nightingale recognised two senior officers from the Flying Squad, both of whom had left the force on medical grounds and now lived in palatial villas in Spain. Most of the villains had either retired or died, but as far as Nightingale could recall, none had served time behind bars.

  ‘Not much else to do in prison,’ said Tyler.

  ‘How long did you get?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘I did two stretches, eighteen months and four years,’ said Tyler. ‘It was when I came out the second time that I started working for Mr Gosling. He knew my probation officer and I went to see him. We got on like a house on fire.’

  ‘Did you ever go into the basement at Gosling Manor?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Didn’t know there was one,’ said Tyler, as he racked up the balls again. ‘How about twenty quid a game? Give you a chance to win your money back.’

  ‘You conning me, Alfie?’ he said.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Tyler. ‘So, you’re really Mr Gosling’s boy?’

  ‘He had me adopted at birth,’ said Nightingale. ‘How long did you work for him?’

  ‘Fifteen years, pretty much,’ said Tyler.

  ‘And he paid you well, did he? Because this is one expensive place you’ve got here.’

  Tyler grinned. ‘I had this place long before I worked for Mr Gosling. I was pretty productive in my glory days.’

  ‘So what were you doing driving for him if you weren’t short of a bob or two?’

  ‘He was a character, your dad,’ said Tyler, putting the white ball in position. He reached for Nightingale’s Marlboro and took a cigarette. ‘Could charm the birds from the trees. And the people he knew! Film stars, businessmen, sportsmen. Everyone liked Ainsley Gosling. They were like moths to a flame. He was on first-name terms with half a dozen prime ministers. We had Mrs Thatcher around three times at Gosling Manor. She was a real lady. Took a shine to your dad, she did.’

  ‘If he was that popular, why did I never read anything about him? And Googling him doesn’t throw up anything. There’s never been a newspaper article about him and there are no photographs. He’s the original invisible man.’

  ‘He had a team of spin doctors who did nothing but keep his name out of the papers. And if someone did start getting too close, well, let’s just say that Mr Gosling had a way of helping people to forget things.’

  ‘Now it’s my turn to look puzzled and say, “What?”’

  ‘You never met him, right?’

  ‘I only found out he was my father recently,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘He wasn’t like other men, your dad,’ said Tyler. ‘He had a way with him. A strength.’

  ‘You know he was a Satanist, don’t you?’

  Tyler shrugged. ‘I’m not one for putting labels on people.’

  ‘He studied the occult – he spent millions buying books on witchcraft and devil-worship.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that.’

  ‘Did you ever see him do stuff?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like summoning devils,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You on drugs, Nightingale?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘He was a Satanist and that’s what Satanists do, right? They serve the devil.’

  ‘I never saw him do anything like that,’ said Tyler. ‘I was his driver, his personal assistant, his bodyguard. And I’d like to think I was his friend, too.’ He hit the white ball and it shot into the triangle of numbered ones with the sound of a skull being cracked with a baseball bat. Two balls dropped into pockets.

  ‘How did he make his money, Alfie?’

  ‘He just made it. It came to him. I never saw anybody as lucky as Mr Gosling. If he bought gold, it went up in price. If he bought oil, it went up. Any shares he bought went through the roof.’

  ‘Insider trading?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I reckon he was just lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  Tyler potted three balls in quick succession. Then he straightened
and rested the cue on his shoulder. ‘We went to a casino once. He had two girls with him, model-slash-singers or singer-slash-actresses – bloody fit, legs that went on for ever. Couldn’t have been more than nineteen, either of them. He was always lucky with the ladies, was Mr Gosling.’

  ‘Yeah, rich men usually are,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘It wasn’t about the money,’ said Tyler. ‘I mean, Mr Gosling was a generous man, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve seen women fall for him even when they didn’t know who he was or how much he had. It was like he had power over them, the sort of charisma film stars have. I mean, he was an old man and all but he had no problem pulling young flesh.’

  He bent over the table and potted another ball, then picked up his pint of beer. ‘Anyway, the girls wanted to go to a casino so I drove them all to Leicester Square. Mr Gosling won at every game he played. He sat down at the high-stakes blackjack table and he just won hand after hand. It was like he knew what cards were going to be dealt.’

  ‘Maybe he was a card counter.’

  Tyler shook his head. ‘He was hardly even looking at them. He just sat there joking with the girls and chips kept piling up in front of him. Then they wanted to play roulette and he gave them thousands of pounds’ worth of chips and they lost it all. But pretty much every time he placed a bet he won. It got so that a couple of the casino managers came over to see what was happening.’

  ‘Did they throw him out?’

  Tyler chuckled. ‘You really didn’t know Mr Gosling, did you?’ he said. He sipped his beer. ‘He looked at them and smiled, in that way he did, and they smiled and went away. Nobody ever gave Mr Gosling any trouble over anything. If a flight was overbooked, there was a seat for him in first class. If a restaurant was full, there was a table. He was like royalty. More often than not he didn’t even have to ask. It wasn’t money, it was…’

  ‘Power,’ Nightingale finished for him.

  ‘Presence was what I was going to say,’ said Tyler. ‘People just wanted to help him, to make his life easier, happier, whatever. Maybe that’s why I stayed with him so long. I can’t explain it any other way.’

  ‘Probably a gay thing,’ said Nightingale. Tyler put down his pint and held his cue in both hands, his face tightening. Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Joke,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not gay,’ said Tyler.

  ‘I was joking,’ he said, ‘trying to lighten the moment. Because what you’re telling me is that Ainsley Gosling had power over people. And that’s what I was told.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Him. He left me a DVD, a sort of video last will and testament.’ He smiled, trying to show that he wasn’t intimidated by Tyler’s menacing stare. ‘Wasn’t you that left the envelope on the mantelpiece, was it?’

  ‘What?’ said Tyler, his brow furrowing again.

  ‘Someone left an envelope in Gosling Manor with my name on it. Inside it I found the key to a safe-deposit box and, in the box, the

  DVD.’

  ‘And what did he say on it?’

  Nightingale was there to question Tyler, not open his heart to him. ‘Just the normal father-son sort of chit-chat. Basically apologising for giving me up for adoption. He never mentioned me to you? Not once?’

  Tyler shook his head. ‘Never.’

  ‘Or my sister, his daughter?’

  ‘Never talked about kids, never mentioned having them or wanting them.’

  ‘I get the feeling he was different during the last few years.’

  Tyler stopped holding his cue as if it was a club and picked up his pint. ‘He changed, that’s true,’ he said. ‘Starting travelling overseas more, meeting some very strange people. Buying books by the dozen. Expensive ones. Often in cash.’

  ‘Books about the occult?’

  ‘I didn’t get to see them all but the ones I did see, yeah, witchcraft and stuff. And he started spending more time on his own. Then last year he started getting rid of the staff, one by one. Then he sold his art collection and his furniture. I asked him what was going on but I don’t think he ever explained to me what he was up to.’

  ‘You don’t think? Don’t you know?’

  Tyler sighed. ‘You had to know him to understand what it was like. He had a way of, I don’t know, looking at you that made you either forget or change your mind about something. Like, I’d be really tired and I’d tell him and he’d say something to me and it was like I’d just done a line of coke. Or I’d say I couldn’t work on such and such a day because I had to do something and the next minute I’d forget what was so important and agree to drive him around.’

  ‘He hypnotised you – is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Nah, I was never in a trance and he never did any wavy-hand stuff or swung a watch.’ He sat down on a bar stool. ‘It was weird, though. Sometimes he’d mumble something that didn’t sound like it was English. But then he’d smile and I’d forget about it.’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘Even talking about it sounds stupid. Like I was imagining it. But I’ll tell you, Jack, I would have taken a bullet for Ainsley Gosling, or a knife, or stepped in front of a train.’

  ‘But have you never asked yourself why you felt that way? How he inspired that sort of loyalty?’

  ‘It was just his way,’ said Tyler.

  ‘Charisma,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, charisma.’ Tyler put down his pint and potted the rest of his balls. He grinned and held out his hand. Nightingale sighed and gave him twenty pounds. ‘Double or nothing?’ enquired Tyler.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ said Nightingale, and watched as Tyler set up the balls again. He’d asked for a Corona but the best Tyler could provide was Budweiser. ‘You were the one who found him, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. One hell of a mess.’

  ‘He was alone in the house?’

  Tyler nodded. ‘He’d given the Woodhouses the night off.’

  ‘The Woodhouses? That was the couple who took care of the house, right?’

  ‘Millie and Charlie. They were with him even longer than I was. He had a big staff up until a few years ago but he let them all go.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘He was running out of cash. He always paid me and he never seemed short of cash for books, but I think he lost a lot when the stock market crashed.’

  ‘How did you get into the house?’

  ‘I had a key. I went to the kitchen, like I always did, for a coffee with Millie but she wasn’t there. I waited until about ten and then I went up and found him.’

  ‘Was there a note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘You calling me a liar?’

  ‘It’s just that you and he were close, Alfie. Suicides usually want to explain themselves – to say why they did what they did. If he was going to say anything to anybody, it would have been to you, right?’

  Tyler sighed and straightened up. ‘There was a letter, but it didn’t explain anything.’

  ‘And you really didn’t leave an envelope for me on the mantelpiece in the main room?’

  Tyler shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘Alfie, you might as well tell me everything. It couldn’t have been anyone but you. You found the body, and the police didn’t see any envelope when they were there.’

  Tyler nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘There was a letter for me and an envelope for you. In the letter Mr Gosling told me to wait until the police and everyone had gone, then leave your envelope on the mantelpiece and lock up.’

  ‘And what did you do with your letter?’

  ‘Burned it. That was what he told me to do.’

  ‘And what else did it say?’

  ‘Said I could keep the Bentley, for one. Apologised for the mess. Told me to call the cops. And there was some cash for the Woodhouses.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘No idea. They just went. I think they had a place in the Lake District.’ Tyler finished setting up the table and picked up his
cue.

  ‘He was buying a lot of books over the year or so before he died, right?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Tyler. ‘He had me driving him all over the country and to and from the airport every week or so.’

  ‘What about a diary written by a guy called Sebastian Mitchell? Did you ever see that? Big leather-bound book, written in Latin, back to front. I think it was the last thing he read.’

  ‘Like I said, he didn’t show me his books. But I went to Mitchell’s house a few times.’

  Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘You met him?

  ‘Never met him but drove to his house. Place up near Wivenhoe, in Essex. Big place, very heavy security.’

  52

  Nightingale drove up to a set of high, wrought-iron gates set into a ten-foot brick wall. He climbed out of the MGB, went up to a small brass speakerphone set into the gatepost on the left and pressed it. It buzzed, then there was static but no one spoke. Nightingale leaned closer to the grille. ‘Hello,’ he said. There was no reply, just static. There was a CCTV camera on a metal post on the other side of the wall, covering the gate. Nightingale grinned and held up his driving licence to it. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’ He had no way of knowing if anyone was watching him so he put it away and went back to the speakerphone. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he repeated. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’

  The static stopped abruptly and a woman spoke, her voice curt and official. ‘Mr Mitchell doesn’t see visitors. Please remove yourself from outside our property. Thank you.’ The speakerphone went dead.

  Nightingale pressed the button again and the static returned. ‘My name is Jack Nightingale and I want to see Mr Mitchell. Mr Sebastian Mitchell.’

  ‘Mr Mitchell does not receive visitors,’ said the woman.

  ‘Can you tell him it’s about the book he wrote? His diary.’

  ‘Mr Mitchell never sees visitors,’ said the woman. ‘If you don’t go away immediately, the police will be called.’